Home

The brown haired woman looked to be in her late fifties.  Her fingernails perfectly manicured, hands lotioned smooth. Personal grooming; immaculate.  Glasses low enough on the bridge of her nose to expose her well made-up eyes.  Tailored suits with buttons.  Many buttons.  Collar pressed and everything, well, everything just-so.

The clanking of the keys around her wrist tapped on the cherry wood bank desk.  The room smelled of paper and success.  She leaned forward, downward, at me, “but do you have any assets?”

I was twenty eight years old, fresh off the plane from England, returning to my small town bank.  The one I had visited countless times as a child and young adult.  Returning with a bag on my shoulder.  And hopes in my heart.  “Like you mean, stuff I own?”, I asked.  Sheepishly.

And then my mind slipped off to a day dream.  The past four years of adventure and exploration.  Growth as a woman.  Confidence gained.  Identity sculpted.  Friendships forged.   Career climbing.  Worlds explored.  Cultures visited.  Relationships developed. Battles fought in this thing called life.  Tests of integrity.  Deeply searching.  Seeking.  Enduring.  Moments of brokenness.  All of the years.  Oh, all of the years.

I drove away angry.  Assets.  Assets?

“You should be here”, I remembered as she pointed at the graph, the financial one, of my tick box existence.  The 25-30 category.  Where ski-doos, two-storey’s, two vehicles, and two wed-locked people usually fall.

And then the tears came.  Big, silent, fat ones that puddled on my down-filled jacket.  Falling so loud, the discouragement echoed in the car.  Not quite measuring up-again.  Wishing God had made me more “normal” so I would be content in the keeping up with the Jones’ kind of life. “I’m not where I expected I would be”, I whispered.

For a little while the longing was painful.  No, it was humbling.  And then with discipline and concentration, several months later I got where I wanted to be, at least financially.    Then I experienced it.  For a moment;  this feeling of being home.  Of arriving. Of making it.

But, as with any achievement that's settled and conquered, like the coming of winter, the longing came back again.  To want more.  To needing to reach a place.  Somewhere.  Something.  Someone.  Just one place, only to reach it and find the feeling slip through my hands. Again.

          

Do you know that you are meant for so much more than this?

Than just this place. 

Just this job.

Just this situation. 

Just this bank account.

Just this health issue.

Just this home. 

That your divine purpose is just that, divine. That the longing and the thirst, the unquenchable, exhausting, unending thirst, is meant to be filled by the very person who knows your name. Who knows your heart.

Who is your home.

In all places. 

At all times.  In all ways.  Always.

And he meets you here.  Open-armed.  Every day.  Waiting for you. Regardless of what you’ve done, or where you’ve been.  Or how very tired you are.  Or how small and miniscule your faith may feel.  He whispers, “I love you child, Welcome Home.”   He has such a grand adventure to take you on.

 ~Nothing in all of creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God~Romans 8:39